


Hiding from you in this skin

by feyrelay



Category: Daredevil (TV), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man (Video Game 2018), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Peter Parker, Alternate Universe, Armor Kink, Boss/Employee Relationship, Canon Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Identity Porn, M/M, Moodboards, Not Spider-Man: Homecoming Compliant, Peter Parker is a Mess, Peter is 23, Praise Kink, Secret Identity, Service Kink, Tony Stark Does What He Wants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2020-05-15 04:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19287682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyrelay/pseuds/feyrelay
Summary: If the Civil War never got bad enough for Tony Stark to go looking for a new recruit, then it must be said his life is better off for it. It has its ups, like Pepper, and its downs like... well, like Pepper.He could go for some post-breakup pizza.Peter Parker, now twenty-three and graduated from Empire State University, still needs to get some food in his mouth. Unlike some people, he works hard for everything he's got. He's young and hungry, but that's fine; he works at the best pizzeria in the city, after all.But not for long.(Takes place in a fusion of the MCU and Spider-Man PS4 'verse.)





	1. Cash Only

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tangodoodles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangodoodles/gifts).



> Playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0HYMQQpikVfSfJMaNW6wfG?si=XRYecTPcQY2QjQgTuvwuEw).

 

Tony just wants his space, is that so unreasonable?

Everyone needs privacy, needs independence, and him doubly so, he’d say. _I’ve been on my own since I was twenty-one,_  he thinks resentfully. He doesn’t know why everyone insists on acting like ‘Tony Stark’ is a codeword for ‘irresponsible’.

To hear Pep and Rhodey tell it, he’s barely capable of feeding himself. It’s absurd. He’s a billionaire, and if he wanted the chef from _Masa_ up here in the penthouse to make him a PB&J, he could have that. The only reason he doesn’t is because he’s not an _asshole._

(Well, not that kind of asshole, anyway.)

Yet, for all his protests, Tony feels a little more micro-managed every day. It’s not easy when your lover is your ex-assistant. And, every day, Pepper’s hair goes a little lighter with grey (his fault, probably) and she looks. Look. It’s not about aging. He’s not _that_ kind of asshole, either, the kind that wants to dump an amazing, loving, brilliant woman for someone half her age or worse. It’s not that.

It’s just, with the silver cutting through all that gold, she looks like his mother.

He can’t take that, it’s too much. He can’t relax about it, can’t shake the shiver that goes through him when she presses close to kiss his cheek and he feels a strand of pearls lay neatly against his collarbone, through thin T-shirt material.

It’s not about her age; Pepper has—and always _has_ had—a rockin’ bod and, more importantly, his heart. It’s just hard to live with a ghost, especially with the way she wakes him, gentle in blue Manhattan early morning. Especially with the way she makes sure he eats and praises all his smallest victories.

Tony loves it too much, wants it too much, _needs_ it too much.

So, they break up.

(He’d rather hurt her once, badly, than every day for the rest of his life.)

***

The problem with Tony being right about this, is that the universe keeps score. Conversely, he’s got to be wrong about something else, and soon he figures, before balance is restored.

(But did it have to be the not being able to feed himself thing?)

Tony’s waiting on his delivery from the pizza place Happy had recommended, already anticipating hot, hearty mouthfuls of margherita bufala from a true, authentic pizzeria out in Queens. Tony’s especially excited for the taste of fresh mozzarella, because he thinks he’s probably craving calcium; the bits of eggshell that had made it into his omelet this morning (somehow) had actually given it a nice kind of crunch. That spoke volumes.

He’d had that thought and realized he probably needed some help with this whole meals, rest, other-important-details thing. Preferably, Tony thinks now, he should arrange for something to be done before he starts on another lab bender and ends up drinking his own urine like this is _127 Hours_.

But who to hire? Who to hire to do the hiring, actually, because Tony does _not_ want to do a bunch of interviews. All he wants is an assistant, and really that shouldn’t be so hard. They don’t have to be particularly skilled or business-minded; he doesn’t need another Pepper.

(Tony needs a not-Pepper, if he’s honest.)

Not-Pepper knocks on his balcony door. The glass makes a discordant sound.

Mystified, Tony is cautious about opening the door. He has his gauntlet in his watch and another for his off-hand in a corresponding bracelet, but he’s been burned before.

Then he sees the pizza box in the kid’s hand, and the way the young man—who must be in his early twenties, he’d guess—has his hoodie zipped all the way to the neck. Summertime or no, it’s still cold, this many floors up.

“How in the hell did you get up here? And _why_?” is the first thing out of Tony’s mouth; he can’t help it.

Teeth-chattering in an exaggerated manner, the young man just points. There’s an abandoned window-washing station suspended next to the edge of his little sitting area and garden. Well, Pepper’s little sitting area and garden.

Tony looks at the kid incredulously. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

The chattering teeth stop long enough to explain, “There was no answer when the front desk tried to get an access code for the elevator. All requests were muted.”

 _Oh._ He remembers thinking he needed to remember to turn on incoming pings to FRIDAY again, now that they had no one to route to.

Tony pulls the delivery guy into the penthouse. “I swear, I’m not usually this much of an asshole,” he says.

“S’alright,” is all he gets in return, well, that and an expectant look.

There’s a pause.

“Did I…? FRIDAY, did I not specify that you should have the pizzeria charge my account?”

“You did, boss, but the specified business has not yet submitted any kind of transaction for the funds.”

“Cash only,” Tony is informed. The kid has a bit of a grin. “Sir,” he tacks on, an afterthought.

It should annoy him. He’s Tony fucking Stark, what do they need? But, as it is, he’s mostly just noticing how this kid’s chill disappeared immediately, he’s not out of breath from hauling his own bodyweight up however many stories, and—most importantly—he didn’t bat an eyelash at the Irish lilt coming out of the ceiling.

He’s clearly adaptable, strong, not a whiner. Smart.

(These are all things he’d liked about Pepper, but he can’t see himself being mothered by a twenty-something kid.)

“What’s your name, boy wonder?”

***

It turns out, Peter Parker is perfect, or nearly so.

Tony finds out, over a pizza that is truly a religious experience, that the kid is from Queens. The restaurant is only a few blocks from his house, and he lives with his aunt.

Mostly, Tony wants to know this so he can find out how badly they need money. He wants to know what to pay him. The number he throws out makes the kid go doe-eyed.

Well, he’d say ‘doe-eyed’ if he was being charitable. It’s really more like doe-in-headlights.

“F-for what? Like, excuse me, I. I’m not really a business kind of guy; I don’t know how much I can help Stark Industries.”

“You’re not here to help Stark Industries. You’re here to help me.”

“No offense, Mr. Stark, but I’m pretty sure they made a porno with one of your celebrity lookalikes that starts just like this.”

And that lands. As soon as the words are out in the air, the kid looks horrified with himself.

Tony, for his part, is mostly amused, charmed even. Or, at least he is until he remembers the way things had started with Pepper. She’d always had a way of disarming him and making him laugh with her brisk, forthcoming nature.

He stands up.

“I’m going to assume you heard about that from a friend of a friend, am I correct?”

“Absolutely,” he allows the younger man to lie.

“Fantastic. So, compensation is settled, and that’s that. Let me save you some time. Yes, I know you’re not qualified, and I know you weren’t asking, and I know you don’t want this.”

Peter—Mr. Parker, actually; that's more apropos—nods. The doomed doe eyes are back.

“That’s why you’re the right fit for the job. See you tomorrow.”

Mr. Parker stands up as well. “Alright. I’ll, uh, I’ll get here early and settle things with your HR department, before I buzz breakfast in. Uh, if that’s alright?”

“Don’t ask me. Either it’s what I want and you don’t need to ask, or it’s not and you should know better.”

In response, Mr. Parker squares his jaw and snags another slice of the margherita bufala. At Tony’s raised eyebrow, he shrugs.

“I figure it’s in your best interest that I don't starve to death before I can order your meals for tomorrow. I have a high metabolism.”

(Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be.)

“Good night, Mr. Parker.”

“Good night, boss.”

But Tony stops him halfway to the balcony. “Wha-”

“You can use the elevator," he reminds him.

(Yeah, definitely not-Pepper.)


	2. Lone Wolf-Spider

The thing about having someone around who is meant to deal with all of Tony’s problems is that they have to actually _know_ _about_ all of Tony’s problems.

This is fine when it comes to the lab benders and the tendency to not eat for days on end—that’s quirky. Eccentric. Idiosyncratic. Tony’s used to those words being thrown around in his presence.

However, when Parker asks—on his first day, no less—about whether or not he should be accounting for Ms. Potts and her tastes, Tony feels the immediate desire to curl protectively around that little secret. That little quirk. (If you could call his serial inability to maintain a relationship a ‘quirk’.)

“Ah, yes. Make sure to send any of her clothes to the all-natural dry cleaner’s. Sensitive skin, you know,” he babbles. Tony’s honestly amazed the gossip rags haven’t gotten wind of the breakup yet, but then again, Pepper is the best. They only know what she wants them to know.

“Yes, Mr. Stark,” Parker says easily, checking something off his little list. Tony notices he’s using an order pad from the pizzeria. Can this kid not even afford a notebook?

“I’ll, um, be in the lab. New StarkPad model out soon, and all that,” Tony says, not sure why he feels the need to explain himself.

“Oh, wait! Um, I was going to ask if there was any way I could answer to FRIDAY, as far as human resources stuff is concerned? It’s just that, um, it’s not a very traditional hiring process…” Parker trails off, scratching at his collar with the eraser on his pencil, Tony notes. (He’s nervous.)

“HR is used to my shenanigans by now; you will be too, soon,” Tony replies, thinking he better set up some semblance of professionalism now, early in their working relationship.

The younger man adjusts his cuffs next. “Ah, well. Actually, it’s just that I went by there this morning and I guess my ex works here now…”

Jesus. Tony’s already regretting this; he really didn’t want to know anything about his assistant’s personal life. Not after Pepper wormed her way into his life. He doesn’t need this.

Tony struggles for the name of the HR head. She hasn’t been around long, but Pepper had insisted they meet as Tony was considered a… frequent flyer, where human resources was concerned.

“Felicity- no, Felicia. Felicia Hardy is your ex?” Tony clarifies, impressed despite himself. The woman’s got to be in her thirties. Maybe Parker’s not the natural twink he appears from the outside.

But the poor, embarrassed thing must mistake his meaning. “Listen, she wasn’t as old back then,” Peter explains, much to Tony’s internal chagrin. ‘Old’, he says. Lordy. “This was several years ago, but it was… a bad breakup, you could say.”

“Christ, you must have been just a baby.”

Peter glowers. “Apparently, she thought so too, when she found out-”

Tony cuts in. “... What do you mean ‘when she found out’? Parker, you _dog_.”

But his assistant clams up, staring hard at his to-do list. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

Tony waves him away, amused in spite of himself.

***

It’s only once he’s elbow-deep in the code for the new StarkPad that he realizes he’s double-coding, one screen working in the standard programming language that he’s typing out readily with a QWERTY keyboard, and the other scrolling through lines FRIDAY is transliterating directly from his thoughts and micromovements via the eye-tracking headpiece. As he pauses a moment and lets the proprietary iconographic shorthand fill his vision, he realizes he’s been thinking up extra features for a custom version of the StarkPad for his assistant’s use.

Tony wires-out and practically kicks his stool away.

 _Not this again_ , he thinks stubbornly. This is how it started with Pepper, with the gifts.

Unbidden, Parker’s sob story from earlier comes filtering into his suddenly available brain. What Tony had failed to take away then, that he appreciates now, is that Parker clearly has a thing for older men and women, if he’d gone after Hardy, who was a complete shark. Moreover, aside from what he knows about the woman and her feline, sleek professionalism, Parker had revealed that he’d somehow kept his young age under wraps, at least for the first part of their little dalliance.

Tony isn’t stupid, thank you very much. He knows the beginnings of a pattern—of an M.O.—when he sees them.

He’ll be damned if he becomes a mark.

***

Tony finishes work on the standard StarkPad iteration, deleting the other code. His stomach growls.

In the large, open eating area, Tony finds, Parker has set up a truly delicious looking dinner. A lot of work was put in to make it look like it wasn’t something Peter had ordered in, he can tell. Tony appreciates that, and doesn’t want to.

“Well, this looks _interesting_ ,” he stresses, bringing forward his most assholish tone, “... but I have plans for this evening with Pepper.”

“Oh,” Parker says, face falling before it suddenly re-composes itself, “... well, I do have enough for two here, if you don’t already have reservations somewhere. Which, my notes say you don’t, uh- I mean, I had thought you might want to talk about my exact duties, but-”

Man, this one doesn’t give up. He decides he needs to be a bit more forceful, and he mentally apologizes to Pepper for the light he’s about to paint her in. “I’m not sure this is what Ms. Potts would prefer for date night, Parker, but we can talk about your performance tomorrow. I’m on my way out,” he says firmly. “Good night,” Tony adds, tapping his watch for the suit.

He’s gotta get out of there.

Peter, flat, says what’s expected. “Of course, I’m sorry. See you tomorrow, boss.”

The faceplate materializes over Tony’s expression, thank god. He doesn’t want to look too hard at his newest employee.

(This is the way it’s gotta be.)

***

Regardless of Tony’s reasons for fleeing the penthouse tonight, it _is_ actually a perfect night for a stakeout of Fisk’s building.

The real-estate mogul is even worse than Tony, to be honest. Everyone who lives in the entire skyscraper works for Fisk in some capacity, belongs to him. _At least SI employees get to go home at the end of a long day_ , Tony thinks as he watches through his magnified HUD from a nearby vantage point. No movement yet.

But Tony is pulled away from his surveillance by a scuffling noise and an aborted _thwip._

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Stark,” the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man intones.

Tony scoffs at the voice-changing software; he could have built him something so much more seamless if Spidey wasn’t such a notorious lone wolf. Lone spider. Lone wolf-spider. Whatever.

“Likewise. Bit far from Queens tonight; I’d have expected one of your other red meanies… Deadpool, or the Devil, maybe, for Manhattan.”

“Nah, ‘Pool’s got no interest in Fisk, and Daredevil has too much,” Spider-Man explains, as if Tony should know these things.

“Yeah, well, Hell’s Kitchen isn’t the only part of Manhattan that needs protecting,” Tony states firmly. He doesn’t want to tango with any other vigilantes. He needs to play this cool.

“Hmmm, so you’re the new neighborhood watch? Figures. With great gentrification comes great militarization.”

“Shut it, webhead. I’m not the enemy.”

“Of course not,” the other superhero says faux-flatly, though Tony can just hear the grin in his voice through the synth-tech. “Still, this is new. I would’ve thought you’d have done something about Fisk by now if you were ever going to.”

“Yeah, too bad your takedown didn’t stick,” Tony grumbles. Spider-Man had been instrumental in putting Fisk away the first time, but didn’t have the clout or the support in the court of public opinion to keep him from weaseling his way out and cutting a deal.

Tony feels, suddenly, that Iron Man could’ve-would’ve-should’ve helped with that. Not that he flatters himself that Spider-Man would have ever asked for such a thing.

Maybe he should’ve just offered. Made the first move.

But while he’s lost in his thoughts, the wallcrawler seems content to keep harping on about Iron Man slumming it to do a stake-out. “So, really, man. Did you have a change of heart, or did your dinner reservations just fall through?”

“Didn’t have any, but there was nothing on the two thousand channels of TV in my penthouse,” he returns flippantly, trying for self-deprecating.

Spidey takes in a breath, coming closer, though. “Oh,” he says. He sounds a little put-out and Tony readies himself for an argument over turf. Instead, though, the masked man just asks, “Want some help?”

Tony’s surprised enough that he agrees.

***

It’s all going swimmingly until some jackass shows up, informs them Mr. Fisk would like some privacy, and starts throwing bits of gravel from the rooftop hard and fast as bullets.

His faceplate dents.

Spider-Man gets them out of there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait, did I not mention this is Marvel Netflix 'verse fusion as well????


	3. Stranger Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait. I am ill-equipped mentally for consistency at the best of times, and these are... not the best of times.

They back up and regroup, Iron Man and Spider-Man. They escape the freakshow chiefly because of Spidey’s quickness and clever maneuvering, and they get back to the penthouse. Tony watches, suit still on, as the wallcrawler picks away at gravel that’s embedded deep, deep, deep, the projectiles having ripped through the spidersuit with ease at their high speed. There was something really wrong with that guy they’d faced—he could throw for the Mets—but that’s tomorrow’s problem.

Spider-Man himself is silent save for little hisses of pain. Some of the gravel has hit deep enough that what Tony presumes is some kind of mutation-enhanced healing has started healing over it, encapsulating the debris. Spidey goes straight for Tony’s medicine cabinet and grabs the little tiny scissors he occasionally details his signature goatee with. The other superhero starts snipping his skin open, casually, after dousing the scissors in rubbing alcohol.

Tony looks away from it, though not before he clocks that Spider-Man is apparently white under there. Tony had assumed that, though Rhodey would probably shove him for doing so. The Brooklyn Spider-Man is black, though, he heard. Younger than this one, he’d guess. Tony doubts a kid would be jadedly picking at his wounds this way, though it won’t be long before the Brooklyn Boy Wonder hits that particular phase of his hero’s journey, too.

“Make yourself at home,” Tony chides gently, to avoid thinking about it. He doesn’t like to wonder about the kids, super and otherwise, following his and Cap’s lead right off the proverbial emotional cliff. For that matter, he doesn’t like to wonder about much of anything Cap-related, these days.

The wide, pale eyes of the Spider-Man suit raise to meet his, and the other man pauses in his self-butchery. The eyes actually convey Spidey’s expression (to a point), which is cool. Tony’s mind starts running background processes aimed at figuring out _how_ , but what’s at the forefront of his mind is an incessant desire to unmask the guy. He’s never empathized with Scooby-Doo more than in this moment.

Spider-Man peers at him through the mask. He doesn’t speak, though he seems like he wants to. Blood drips all over Tony’s couch in the silence.

“Well allll-right, then,” Tony finally says, cutting the awkwardness. He’s not gonna force familiarity on the guy just because they both got tore up on the same rooftop. Jesus.

(Maybe it would help if Tony took off his mask, first?)

He goes to do just that, expecting the faceplate and the rest of it to retract. There’s a lame sort of abortive sound, though, and nothing happens.

Before Tony has time to be embarrassed about this less-than-impressive performance, Spider-Man reaches out and gently thumbs over the dent that psycho had made with his rocks. 

“Yeah, it might have knocked something important loose,” Tony posits, mystified. Spidey’s quicker on the uptake than Tony had had any right to expect. Also, he’s still touching him. Well, the suit. He’s touching the suit.

(“The suit and I are one.”)

“Tch,” says Spider-Man succinctly. He gestures at his own face, then goes back to digging gravel-turned-shrapnel out of his forearm. More blood gets on the couch.

 _Oh,_ Tony’s hyperdrive mind supplies, from that. _He’s not an asshole; his voice synth is just damaged._

He can live with that. For now.

Tony gets the mysterious Spider-Man a beer when he gets himself one, along with the tools he needs to pry his damaged faceplate off, but when he comes back into the main area of the penthouse there’s nothing but a small pile of gravel in his coffee table dish, and traces of webbing fluttering off the balcony.

(Rude.)

They’d make a good team.

***

Peter, for his part, doesn’t seem particularly bothered by walking into work the next morning and finding ‘get blood out of couch and floor’ added to his to-do list.

Tony likes that kind of attitude in an assistant, honestly.

“Do me a favor, kid,” he drawls at ~~Peter~~ Parker over the breakfast that the younger man has set out for him. “Don’t ask what happened.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” Parker puts in shortly. “None of my business. I’d never presume to embarrass Miss Potts that way, either, sir.”

Tony approves. Wait. No, he doesn’t. Well, he does, in theory, but- “I’m sorry, what?”

Peter raises a bitchy little eyebrow as Tony pauses with toast halfway to his mouth. “Your personal life is your personal life. If you wanna earn your red wings, it’s your couch, boss.” He’s watching Tony like this is a test, and honestly it’s way out of line.

He shouldn’t put up with it. This whole conversation is gross.

“You could have at least put a towel down, though.”

Yeah, Tony needs to shut this down. Now.

What he says, instead, is, “I’ve made bigger messes during sex. Read a Cosmo. Relax about it.”

He would never talk about Spidey behind his back. That’s against the superhero code, not that that’s really a thing. Also, Tony knows how quick Peter can be already, even this short way into their acquaintance. There’s no reason to put him in a position to ask questions, no reason to put his assistant onto the scent of blood.

Especially since it would just lead to the lab, and the little, sealed-away baggie of gravel soaked in Spider-Man’s as-of-yet untested DNA.

***

It doesn’t take long for Tony’s plan to bear fruit.

He doesn’t test the DNA, because (as he’s been saying…) he’s not an asshole. Spider-Man is clearly into the whole secret identity thing. It’s not Tony’s bag, but different strokes and all that. Live and let live. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Something like that.

All Tony has to do is hold onto the little bag, and wait. Spider-Man comes to him. He even knocks politely on the door to the balcony, like he thinks if he’s hasty or if he offends Tony that Tony will pull out a laser beam and threaten to shoot down the moon.

“You have something of mine, Mr. Stark, sir.”

And isn’t that a treat? “Never heard you so submissive, spiderling. Normally you give the merc with a mouth a run for his money. Or at least that’s what’s reported.”

“Can I have it back? I was hurt. Made me sloppy. Won’t happen again,” the other man promises. “Unless you already tested it.”

“What if I did?” Tony asks silkily, just to see what happens.

“Then I’d have to kill you,” Spider-Man informs him. A pause. “But you didn’t, did you?”

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” Tony tells him. He reaches out, telegraphs the movement. He claps Spider-Man on the shoulder, and the other man does nothing to stop it, even though Tony knows how quick he is, what he’s capable of. “You can have it back, regardless. I’ll trade you for a beer.”

“I-”

Tony waits.

“I didn’t bring anything with me, Stark. Just my sparkling personality. This outfit doesn’t exactly accommodate pockets.”

 _It would if I’d designed it,_ he thinks _._ “Okay, that’s fine, I’ll provide the refreshments,” Tony offers, springing the trap even as he steps backwards towards the kitchen. “You ever seen _Stranger Things_? Natasha keeps sending me smoke signals telling me to watch it. Though, I think she finds it funny for different reasons than the rest of us.”

“I’m- what? I mean. I thought everyone besides me had seen it, but okay. I don’t have a lot of free time for binge-watching, but I do like sci-fi. And… sorry, do you mean Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow?”

Tony imagines the younger man going pale underneath the spidersuit, then yanks himself away from that train of thought to examine the even shinier nugget that Spider-Man is a secret nerd and possibly a Black Widow stan. He plays it cool, though. “Yeah, who else? Don’t tell me she’s your favorite. _I’m_ the only one with a decent porn lookalike.”

“Doubt it,” Spidey scoffs, not taking the bait. “Also, doesn’t she have better things to do than curate your Netflix queue?”

Tony grins, and revels in the way the spidersuit’s silvery eyes twitch just enough that he knows the other man is tracking it. He steps up without looking, clearing the stair that separates the kitchen from the sunken living room. “She does. That’s why I take her recommendations so seriously.”

“Hm,” is all he gets for that, but he feels eyes on him when he finally turns to finish grabbing their drinks. Tony prays that the vigilante will still be there when he turns back.

Spider-Man does him one better, though, and calls from the living room, “What about Miss Potts? She’s working late tonight? Does she know you’re… er. Having bro time with someone new?”

 _Bro time. Jesus._ Tony feels the immediate and powerful urge to check that he’s not about to provide alcohol to a minor. But it’s not like he can ask to see the guy’s ID.

He tamps it down, though, and comes back out into the entertaining area to see Spider-Man perched on his couch again, this time sans injuries. He really, really wants to ask about the superhealing, but Tony refrains.

(It’s been a while since he’s had company, but he does remember being told that he has a way of interrogating and debating, rather than making conversation.)

“You’re old enough for one of these, right? When’s your birthday?”

Oops. But Tony hopes it doesn’t come off as prying even as he settles into the opposite side of the sofa. He hesitates a minute when Spider-Man takes in a loud breath through the mask.

The thin-soled, flexible ‘shoes’ of the spidersuit meet his coffee table. Tony lets it happen, because he’s more interested in Spider-Man’s response. “That’s for me to know and you to not find out, Daddy Warbucks.”

“Please,” Tony responds instantly. “Daddy Warbucks was my father. Call me Tony.”

“Tony Warbucks. Got it,” Spidey quips, even as he uses a web to snag the controller for the TV. He flips it in the air once, end over end, before handing it gingerly to Tony, like he’s purposefully slowing himself down so as not to offend Tony’s delicate, unenhanced senses.

(That’s cute.)

Tony takes the remote and tosses it back on the coffee table. “Fri? Roll tape.”

“On it, boss,” the AI chirps. Spider-Man doesn’t flinch, not like most people.

He does hum, though, even as the Netflix logo fills the projector screen. “So, she must be a secret. Because I notice she knew exactly what to play for you, so she must listen and understand. She’s capable of extrapolations?”

The more Tony learns about Spider-Man, the more he regrets not recruiting him years ago. It would be nice to be able to talk about these things with someone besides Bruce, who has a tendency to recuse himself when it comes to Tony having things he’s not supposed to have. Like full-sentience AI. “Don’t go running to DoD, now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Tony is reassured by the other man. Spidey draws his knees up, taking his feet off the coffee table, and hugs his shins before resting his chin on his knees. The red light of the show’s credits makes the blue in his suit go purple, and the red go deeper. Tony tries to stop staring.

“Sure, sure. You’re a lone arachnid, and all that. Trust no one.”

“Yep,” Spider-Man agrees, popping the ‘p’ sound, even through the (apparently) repaired voice synthesizer. They don’t talk for the rest of the episode, and Spider-Man only rolls up the edge of his mask to drink about half of his beer.

Before the other man leaves, Tony offers him another, asks if he wants to watch another episode. He hopes he doesn’t come off as desperate, but when have his hopes ever meant much?

“I’m sure CEO Potts would appreciate your undivided attention when she’s finally done for the day,” Spidey declines. “And I have my patrol. Gotta figure out where that Sidd Finch bastard came from.”

And with that bit of spare baseball-reference trivia from _well_ before Spider-Man’s time, Tony decides he really likes this one. Like, a lot.

“I’ll tell you a secret, one time,” Tony starts before he’s finished thinking it. “CEO Potts, as you call her, and I? That’s over. You can crash here anytime, as my colleague. Especially if you meet up with the Rookie of the Year out there, and need to do more meatball surgery. I wouldn’t mind getting that suit off of you, too, if it needs repairs again.”

The other man stops, looks at him, one leg over the railing of the balcony. Tony steps out into the wind, thinking maybe Spidey couldn’t hear him. He doesn’t know if all his senses are heightened or just his healing, movement, and sense of incoming projectiles. “Roger that,” is all he gets for his trouble, though.

“No... ‘Tony’. It’s Tony. I told you that,” he quips. He hasn’t heard Spider-Man laugh yet.

Spidey swings his other leg over the railing. “Tony Warbucks. Yeah, I know.” He _thwips_ a web at an anchor point without looking at it. “I’m twenty-three, by the way.”

And then he dives into freefall, a secondary line snapping out to start the swing seconds later. Tony goes inside.

***

It takes two weeks. Then:

 _I want your help with Fisk. Make it stick this time. How many playdates is that gonna cost me?_ says the note. It's stuck to the outside of the glass with a bit of spare webbing. Tony's just grateful that Peter didn't happen upon it before he could.

Tony turns the missive over, and spends a quarter of an hour hunting down a pen. So analog.

_The team-up is free, but this is America. The healthcare is gonna cost you, even if it's just hooch and beard trimmers. Bring pizza from Queens, I don't have cash and there's this really great place. My assistant will pass the details to your guy at The Bugle. No mushrooms. - TS_


	4. I Got You

What bugs Tony about helping Spider-Man with Fisk is that a) he’s not sure how much help he actually is, and b) it means they spend a lot of time on stakeouts. Fisk is a careful, private man. He’s very image-conscious. He uses his money and eccentricity as a kind of armor against society, not unlike Tony himself.

 If Tony wanted to stare at a really unflattering, distorted reflection of himself, he’d go to Coney Island. It’s really boring, is what Tony’s trying to say.

“This is boring,” he says, on their fifth stakeout in as many weeks. He knows Spider-Man tails Fisk or Fisk’s associates at least part of every night, but Tony honestly doesn’t have the stamina for that. Instead, they have a standing date for Friday night. That’s generally when Fisk takes Vanessa out, when there’s the most movement, anyway.

“Deal with it,” he is told.

Not gonna happen. Tony busies himself by pretending like he doesn’t admire the evil man’s taste in restaurants. Or, he tries. “Have you ever been here? Like, inside?”

The little whirring sound tells him Spidey is looking at him and his wide, white spidersuit eyes are astonished. Tony doesn’t even have to look away from his mark. “What do _you_ think?” the wallcrawler asks rhetorically.

“Well, I don’t know, it could happen! I don’t know who you are, maybe you’re rich and famous, too. Maybe you’re Timothée Chalamet’s alter-ego. I don’t fuckin’ know.”

It’s a long moment before the other man says, “You’re useless, Stark.”

It kinda stings, if he’s honest. Mostly because he knows it’s true. The best thing he can do for this Fisk situation will be to stay out of it until Spider-Man has evidence and then to say all the right things to make things go the right way this time. Tony Stark can turn the tide of public opinion.

So who the hell needs an aging Iron Man?

“Please, just. Talk. Tell me anything. It doesn’t even have to be true, if you don’t want to compromise your secret identity. Just… talk. Speak. Elaborate. Conversate.” Tony can’t be alone with his thoughts any longer tonight. It’s been weeks. The situation at home isn’t great either, since his assistant hates him. Tony is cold to him and Peter is cold right back, and it would be a fun little game except the whole point of being chilly with Peter is to keep it not-fun.

(Pepper had been fun.)

“I’m trying to focus,” Spider-Man tells him, derailing Tony's train of thought. “But I can listen.”

“Forget about it,” Tony replies tiredly, but once given permission he can’t help but try to talk. He narrates what they’re watching—Fisk and his woman alone in one of the most up and coming restaurants in the city. It’s not just bought out; the other tables are not simply empty. They are gone, so that there is no distraction around. The waitstaff disappear into the gloom created around the edges of the dining room by tricks of clever lighting, and there are flowers and candles dotting the empty space, arranged carefully.

“It’s not like this all the time, you know,” Tony begins. “I was here last week and it’s a lively space. I don’t know why you’d take a place noted for its atmosphere and then completely change that.”

“You would if you were a sociopath,” Spider-Man puts in, but Tony hushes him. That part was obvious.

“Duh. I can only imagine what it’s like for her. He clearly expects her to care for, look at, notice nothing else but him. And he’s under her spell, too, but with such an attention to detail. I doubt he can turn it off. I wonder what he’d do if she had a sticky-out nose hair or something. A split end.”

“I-”

“I mean, listen. Is it really love if you don’t, I don’t know. Know that your partner forgets to brush their teeth before bed? Or they always say they’re gonna do all these things, and you just nod along, encouraging or enthusiastic, even. Even though you’ll believe it when you see the finished product and not until. Do you know what I mean?”

“I dunno, Tin Man. I’ve never been in love,” Tony is informed, and it’s a surprising admission from someone who plays it as close to the vest as Spider-Man famously does. Maybe he said it because it’s not exactly identifying information. Both love, and the lack of it, are universal. Go figure.

“You lucky duck. Keep it that way. It sucks.”

Spider-Man shifts in the gravel. “Is that what happened with Pepper Potts? She got tired of your emotional constipation? Fear of commitment? Don’t tell me you ordered her around like a serf just because she was your assistant.”

Tony frowns. His working relationship with Spider-Man has thus far been built on a foundation of stakeout planning, takeout preferences, TV and movie recommendations, and maybe a little light flirting. Not even that, really. More like gay chicken than anything, just Tony waking up that hibernating side of his sexuality after years of monogamy with a woman. It didn’t make him any less bi, or anything; he’s just working off the rust in his joints.

This is a little much, not as fun. He wanted to talk, but not like… _talk._

“Shut up. Nobody likes you. I read that.”

“In the _Bugle?_ ”

“Shut up.”

***

Wilson Fisk kills Stark Tower’s night receptionist in June. Well, he hires someone to do it, obviously.

They don’t leave her body at the desk, either. They put it in the elevator. The private elevator, that only goes from the hotrod garage to the penthouse. _Bastards._

Tony’s lawyers tell him the family doesn’t have much of a wrongful death case, that they’d have to prove that not just his reputation but either _direct_ or _negligent_ actions posed an undue risk, an avoidable one and not one inherent in her work for Stark Industries. There’s no way the court can find fault with him when she died of a criminal act undertaken by another individual.

Tony doubles the settlement, though, that the family has been seeking, cancels his appearance at the July 4th parade, and asks Peter Parker if he’d like to graduate to live-in assistant. Tony springs the question on the kid before he can chicken out, as soon as Peter walks into the penthouse for the morning. It’s necessary.

Fuck his feelings. Fuck how much it screws with his plan to never, ever again allow a situation like Pepper to happen. Fuck it. No one else can die over this, and if he dated…. God, if Fisk is willing to kill his receptionist, then anyone he shacked up with would be first on the hit-list, for sure. Peter Parker is in so much danger already, as his employee. He needs to stop commuting from Forest Hills.

Peter, jacket barely off and slung over his arm, flatly says ‘no’.

“You don’t like me, Mr. Stark,” Peter informs him. “I’m not allowed in the lab unless I’m bringing you a sandwich, which is maddening when you _also_ have a tendency to ask me what I think of your projects. You send me back and forth like a carrier pigeon between you and _The Bugle,_ trying to cozy up to Spider-Man, who, by all accounts _doesn’t like you either._ Why would I- why would either of us reward you for treating us like a commodity and not a person? You want me to _live_ here?”

Tony opens his mouth, not even to get angry but just to take a breath. He’s gobsmacked, mortified. The bad taste in his mouth coats his throat like an inhale of bad cologne. “I don’t… I don’t _not_ like you, Parker. I know you’re a person. You- I. I know you live with your aunt. You, um. Queens, right? Which is how you know the guy who knows Spider-Man, and uh. You watched porn of me once, well not _of_ me, but with one of those knock-off-”

Peter runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Yeah, well. For one thing, that’s all stuff from when you hired me months and months ago. Congratulations, Mr. Stark. Second of all, I retroactively regret that particular indiscretion, because right now, sir? Right now, you’re not all that impressive.”

Fuck him. Absolutely fuck him. “Neither are you, kid. This is not an acceptable way to talk to your boss, no matter what the issue is. There’s such a thing as professionalism, and I’d send you into HR to get a refresher course on that, except I can’t, because _you fucked her_.”

The glittering, angry look Tony gets for that one sees him back up a step, nearly tripping over the stair up into the kitchen area. The marble is slick, and he has a brief flash of splitting his head open on his own floor before Peter’s fist balls in his shirt and _pulls_ , putting him to rights. Tony gets his feet under him. Fuck.

“You’re stronger than you look,” Tony tells him, because it feels wrong to say something as polite as ‘thank you’ at that moment. It might sound fake since they were just fighting. “And faster. My hero.”

Peter pats him once on the chest through the shirt he’d grabbed; his hand knocks against the reactor. “You’re welcome. Gonna fire me?”

“Not today.”

“Good. You need me. Think about that the next time you tune me out when I’m talking to you, then turn around and act like a jealous prick.”

Tony blinks as Peter takes his hand away. “When did I tune you out?” he wonders aloud. “Also, I don’t. I absolutely do not _need_ anyone.”

The younger man pushes past him into the kitchen, leaving Tony there near the breakfast counter. Tony hears the sounds of coffee, precious coffee, being started. “I did tell you that I couldn’t move away from Queens. You asked after the first month I was here, why I didn’t take the excellent paycheck you provide and get out on my own. My aunt has health problems; I told you all about it over your Saturday morning brunch that I so painstakingly had arranged for you. You gave me a waffle like that was supposed to help.”

That was about the time Tony started sacrificing his Friday nights to all-night stakeouts. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Tony starts uncomfortably, “in that case, consider the offer rescinded. I do think I should hire a security detail for you, though. Your aunt, too.” At that, Tony finally makes the effort to meet Peter’s eyes. He watches carefully, even though he feels ashamed and would rather be dismissive and get Peter to leave so he can have some alone time with some coffee and his guilt. But no, Tony needs to know if he’s helping or making this whole thing worse.

Peter’s watching him too. Curiouser and curiouser. “I can take care of myself. Besides, you should really talk to your partner before inviting someone to live with you, even if I’m just staff. Unless you spoke with her about it last night after I left?”

 _No,_ Tony thinks somewhat hysterically. _I was with Spider-Man last night and he showed up only minutes after you left._

Goddamn, but his assistant brings up Pepper at every possible opportunity. He’s so young. Tony… well. It would be nice to let Peter believe in love and good things for a little longer. There’s no reason for Tony to be the one to either jade or gild this particular lily. “Pepper cares about everyone’s safety before anything else,” he finally settles on. It is, in some senses, the truth. “She’s fine with it.”

Tony watches Peter’s back as he locates a mug inside the cabinet. The kid has left his jacket on the counter in order to better complete the chores that Tony should really do for himself. Tony should go hang the thing up for him. “That’s good,” Peter murmurs as he fiddles with the machine. “Honesty is pretty important in any relationship.”

He turns back around just as Tony reaches for the garment, and stops short suspiciously. “Er…” Tony babbles.

“What are you doing?”

“I was just going to-”

The mug makes a loud sound on the counter as Peter sets it down forcefully, and liquid sloshes over the rim. “Don’t touch my things, if you please. Boss,” he tacks on as a semi-deferential afterthought.

Tony can’t say he appreciates the effort. “I was trying to be _nice_ -”

The younger man moves so, so _fast._ Jesus fucking Christ. He snatches the jacket up, checks the myriad of pockets built into it right in front of Tony like Tony fucking Stark is gonna steal his wallet. The whole thing makes him lightheaded. “I don’t need you to be nice,” Peter all but snaps. “I need you to- I need you to _trust_ me. Stop lying, sir, just. This Fisk stuff is dangerous, and I’m over here with you literally all the goddamn time, and I don’t get any sleep, and I’m only _human_ -”

God.

Tony is such an asshole. What Peter must be feeling, after finding Sarah’s body in the elevator… the stress. The survivor’s guilt. Tony knows it all too well.

“Okay. Okay, Mr. Parker, it’s alright,” Tony tries, approaching Peter slowly. The kid is shaking. Tony hopes an odd blend of paternal and professional will help blunt the edge of the breakdown. “Why don’t you take a little rest in the guest bedroom? See if you like it. If so, maybe we can work something out and set your aunt up nearby, and if not then we’ll find another workable solution. You can take a break, get some rest, and bring me some actionable feedback in a bit, okay, kid? Just hold on, Peter. I got you.”

But Peter scrubs his arm across his face harshly, even though there are no tears there. He sniffs loudly, like he’s steeling himself, it just makes the poor kid sway on his feet instead. “No, I. I can’t, you need me tonight, I mean. Today.”

“What for?” Tony puts it to him, gently. He steps around the counter and starts the process of coaxing Peter out of the kitchen, aiming to get him down the hall. “There’s nothing here that I can’t do. It’s Saturday. You deal with breakfast and then I have some long-standing social engagements. It’s fine. You usually go home soon anyway.”

Peter laughs in a way that sounds like he finds his current situation deeply unfunny. It’s a little manic-sounding, and Tony’s worry and guilt skyrocket. How could he not have noticed that his assistant was struggling this much? It’s true that he and Peter have been secretive with each other, that he’s treated the younger man dismissively in his bid to maintain a professional distance. It’s also true that much of Tony’s time has been taken up with the pursuit of Fisk and his burgeoning bromance with everyone’s favorite webhead. But this is… this is a mental health crisis.

He should have paid attention.

“You don’t even know how much you need me for, oh my god, this is so not okay,” Peter says faintly, almost to himself, even as Tony takes the kid’s arms and starts walking him towards the guest bedroom.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean,” he replies, maneuvering Peter around the corner.

“What color is the button that makes the espresso?” Peter asks him skeptically. Tiredly. Resigned.

(Tony owes him a raise, probably.)

Confidently, Tony answers, “Blue.” He gets them to the door of the guest bedroom, but Peter pushes out of his grasp and leans against the wall of the hallway. Tony steps back, keenly aware that he shouldn’t have touched the other man at all if he could have avoided it.

“It’s a touch screen,” Peter informs him.

“Damn.”

Peter chuckles again even as he rubs his eyes. Tony’s tired just looking at him, but he can’t rest. Tonight’s the night he and Spidey have agreed to take their investigation into the goings-on in Fisk’s building to the next level. That level being 'breaking and entering'. 

“You know?” Peter starts conversationally, fatigue in every inch of his voice.

“Hm.”

“You really need to pick a lane. It’s either idiosyncratic, nutty inventor or hypercompetent Avenger. I don’t think you should really be getting to have it both ways, sir.”

Tony snorts and prods Peter into the bedroom. “Having it both ways is kind of my thing,” he informs him.

“Touché.”

Tony can’t help but smile at the way the younger man collapses into sitting on the bed, then makes a face at Tony as if to say, _Are you happy now_? So like a teenager, even though Peter isn’t one. “Goodnight, Mr. Parker.”

“Whatever. I’m just gonna sleep for a little bit. ‘Til sundown, maybe.”

“Sure thing.”

***

Tony makes his own breakfast, for once. Then his own lunch. Then his own dinner.

Then he suits up, because he’s not waking that kid for anything. Friday confirms that Peter is still conked out, and offers her opinion that he must have been on the verge of medical exhaustion. Tony believes it, so he intends to get the hell out of dodge now and avoid any awkwardness when the other man finally does wake up and start asking questions like ‘How long was I out?’ or ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ or ‘Where _is_ Pepper tonight?’.

Besides, Spider-Man’s waiting on him. Or, at least, that’s what Tony thinks until he gets to their rooftop and there’s no one there. He’s fashionably late, because dinner was harder to make than he remembered it being, but. Surely not.

Surely Spider-Man wouldn’t have taken on Bullseye and Fisk alone. His superior senses help a lot, Tony knows, with avoiding the deadly projectiles that Fisk’s pet freak throws with frightening speed and accuracy. He knows Spidey helps Daredevil out with him on a regular basis.

But that’s just it. Bullseye is best taken on in a team. No one should go it alone. Two targets mean his damage per second is halved for each person, and those are far better odds.

If the wallcrawler got tired of waiting on Tony and went in alone, then he may already be in trouble. Fuck.

He may already be as dead as Tony’s receptionist, throat slit with a CD or something crazy like that. Goddamnit.

Tony finds the second-best entry point on the building, aware that his partner may have already blown the element of surprise associated with their agreed-upon plan. Then he fires up his jets and prepares to make an entrance.

_I’m coming, Spider-Man. Just hold on. I got you._


End file.
